poetry for fools…

home

if coming back here meant anything
other than a restless cold,
you couldn’t see it
in the corners of her mouth.
staying here invited conversation,
swollen tongues and all that
beer lip residue
tasting of fresh apples.

it was nothing;
nothing as assured as
commitment anyway;
more just a a hat hanging on a nail
in the wall,
threatening to fall off
with every breeze kicked up
by the opening of the
downstairs door.

still, in the time to think
before any necessary action;
just talk in big words, practice
subtle manipulation of key words,
bat an eye,
sharpen the scarab
and load the lupara.
open the porthole windows,
it’s getting hard to breath.

the smoke moves around her
when she comes back,
and when she goes she gets
swallowed by things
that defy explanation;
it can’t be as important
as it seems
to find the right word.

if leaving here was just a prelude
to coming back,
then I have to be the one to say
“could be fun to try”
cause all I get without
putting on the risk is
nothing.

staying here means we’re slow.
i’m reacting to folded
muscles,
she’s folding in the corners
hoping for some change maybe,
or clean sheets,
or all of the other stuff
that should be here waiting.

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